


Heat

by tartanfics



Category: Agent Carter (TV)
Genre: Cooking, Established Relationship, F/F, Femslash, Fingerfucking, Kitchen Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-06
Updated: 2015-05-06
Packaged: 2018-03-29 08:54:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3890200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tartanfics/pseuds/tartanfics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I was done waiting," Peggy says, and puts her hands on Angie's hips.</p>
<p>"What for?"</p>
<p>"For you to get the damn lasagne in the oven," Peggy says, laughing. She presses her body into Angie's until Angie's back hits the edge of the counter next to the oven.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heat

**Author's Note:**

> This is really just Peggy-and-Angie-have-sex-in-the-kitchen. :D

The funny thing about being a waitress, serving people's food, and living at the Griffith, where food is served to her, is that Angie actually really likes to cook. So when she sees the gigantic kitchen in Howard's (hers and Peggy's) house, she decides to take the total disruption of her life as an opportunity. 

Jarvis stocked the kitchen for them, and that first night after he leaves ("I shall excuse myself and let the two of you explore your new home at leisure," with a prim little glance like he has ideas about what he means by "explore") Angie sets herself to making the kind of dinner a girl who spent most of the war in England would have dreamed about. 

Peggy sits herself down on a kitchen stool and kicks her heels off. 

"If I trip on those and spill tomato sauce all down your front I won't be held responsible," Angie says. 

"You might lick it off me."

God, that arched eyebrow. 

"If you're offering to let me lick anything off you," Angie says dryly, "I don't think tomato sauce would be my first choice."

Peggy grins and swings her feet. "What are you cooking me? I hear it involves tomato sauce."

"Good old-fashioned lasagne," Angie says. "I love the way you say tomato."

Peggy swings a foot at her, a playful kick. Angie has never seen Peggy quite so playful, so stripped of care and caution. They haven't quite figured out how their relationship works now it's officially known that Peggy does not work for the phone company. But that revelation seems to have opened Peggy up, allowed her to throw herself full tilt into this thing the two of them are doing. Living together, making each other dinner, squabbling over how to arrange their bedroom. It's exciting. New and hopeful. 

"Do you think Jarvis just assumed I'd want to make lasagne because I'm Italian, or do you think he did his research and broke into my room to read my recipe book?" Angie asks. She holds up a noodle for Peggy's inspection. 

"I think you won't like the answer either way, so it's best not to ask," Peggy says. 

Angie shrugs. "Works for me."

Cooking while Peggy sits and watches is calming, companionable. Beneath the quiet, Angie can feel the future brimming up around her. Will they do this regularly? Will they have the time? They've never shared so much space before. When they slipped into each other's rooms in the Griffith it was a little thing. They had no particular ideas about what they were doing other than _making you come three times_ or _what do you think Miss Fry would do if she caught us with my hand up your skirt in the laundry room?_

But then there was Angie acting her socks off to get secret agents out of her bedroom. There was Peggy knocking out a bunch of guys in the L&L (which Angie is still sore she didn't get to see). And there was Peggy coming to find her, taking her for a walk down familiar New York streets and saying, "I'm sorry." Saying, "Howard Stark owes me." Saying, "How would you like to live with me?"

And Angie saying, "All right, why not?"

And here they are.

Angie gets the lasagne in the oven and shuts the door in a billow of heat. She turns toward the sink and bumps straight into Peggy, lurking behind her. "Where'd you come from?"

"I was done waiting," Peggy says, and puts her hands on Angie's hips.

"What for?"

"For you to get the damn lasagne in the oven," Peggy says, laughing. She presses her body into Angie's until Angie's back hits the edge of the counter next to the oven. "How long?"

"Half an hour." Angie wraps her arms around Peggy's waist, spreading her fingers wide and digging them in.

"And you set a timer?"

"Yes--" the end of the word is lost in Peggy's mouth. Her tongue curls against Angie's teeth and Angie breathes open, pushes tongue against tongue. Peggy's fingers are fumbling at Angie's skirt, quick and unusually desperate.

"We're doing this here?" Angie asks. She only pulls away far enough to speak. Her breath rebounds off Peggy's lips, hot. 

"We haven't made the bed yet. We don't want to miss the timer when it rings."

Angie laughs. "So practical." 

They kiss again, warm and loose. Everything about Peggy is more relaxed now, even her kisses. Before she was all precision, and that was good too, but this is better. Angie's nose bumps against Peggy's smooth cheek. She can feel herself eating lipstick but it's a small matter when Peggy's teeth are scraping against her lower lip.

The heat of the oven reaches for Angie. It's almost uncomfortable against her back and her ass and her legs. The way Peggy's pressing her against the counter they keep sliding closer to the heat, and Angie wants to push away but there's nowhere to go. Just _closer to Peggy_.

"Just wait'll I tell my friends I had sex in Howard Stark's kitchen," Angie jokes, giggling, her lips against Peggy's jaw.

"He'd be so proud. Though given Howard's reputation," Peggy says, "they'll assume you were having sex with Howard."

Angie snorts. "Hardly."

Peggy tugs Angie's skirt up around her hips and pauses. "Is this alright?"

"What?"

" _This_ ," Peggy repeats. She jerks her head back to encompass the kitchen, with its black and white tiles and shiny copper pots and pans hanging from hooks. The question encompasses the whole big house, the ostentatious four-poster bed in the bedroom they'll share, the life they might lead. Sex in the kitchen. It's a sobering moment.

"Of course it is, Peg."

Peggy arches an eyebrow at her, asking if she's sure.

"It's worth a try."

"Yes. I think so too." Peggy's hand comes up around Angie's shoulder; she brushes the backs of her fingers down Angie's neck beneath her hair. "And the sex in the kitchen?"

Angie bites her lip. "I've always kinda had a thing about doing it in weird places. Learned young probably, sneaking around with Jimmy Abbiati at the movies and the public library."

"You had sex in a library?" Peggy asks. She sounds half comically scandalized and half actually a little shocked, which is cute.

Angie shrugs. "Can't say it was good sex."

"Well," Peggy says. " _This_ will be good sex." Trust Peggy Carter to take it as a challenge. She wraps her hands around Angie's hips and holds her against the counter. "What would you like me to do?"

They haven't been doing this long enough that they've stopped asking--for permission, for directions, for suggestions. And it's a nice ritual, and Angie figures it's good practice because living together, they're going to need to ask. It's important, knowing how to talk things through. Even if it's just, "I want your fingers in me."

Peggy wets her lips and smiles slow and dangerous. She tucks the hem of Angie's skirt into the waistband and sinks to her knees.

Angie reaches back to grip the counter. Her hand bumps against something soft and finds an oven mitt. She considers offering it to Peggy to cushion her knees. 

With her skirt around her waist the oven feels even hotter, nothing to protect the bare skin of her thighs from the glow of its heat. Peggy runs wide open hands up the back of her thighs and under the soft silk panties she put on special for moving day. They're the barest protection against the oven. And no protection at all against Peggy's hands, her grip and the slight press of her thumbnails--just enough to feel it, not enough to hurt. 

Peggy kneels there for a little bit, shifting her hands against Angie's ass and looking like she's thinking. It's barely anything, the contact of her hands, only a little tease. But it's making Angie so impatient. "Dammit Peg," she says, and lets go of the kitchen counter to shove aside the silk and press two fingers to her clit.

"Oh, so that's how it is," Peggy says, leaning back far enough to look up. "You can't wait, can you?"

And then she takes her right hand off Angie's ass and slides a finger inside Angie. It's a simple matter: already slick-wet inside, there's no resistance. Plenty of room for the finger to shift, curl, twist. More than enough room to slide another in beside the first.

Angie takes several deep breaths. Her own fingers still and slip down to grip her own thigh. She slides down a little against the counter, pushing her skirt up higher and her body down onto Peggy's fingers.

Peggy's mouth drops open at that, at the way her fingers are suddenly deeper inside Angie and her knuckles are making themselves inconvenient. She's caught off guard for only a minute before she's wiggling her fingertips, slipping them around the softest spots, reaching. Angie's eyes slip shut and flutter open again.

Peggy's moving so _slowly_ , teasing Angie open incrementally, scissoring her fingers apart and then twisting them, rubbing, always changing the pace or the motion. Angie grips the counter, wrists bent back too sharply. Beyond them, past the oven and their bodies, the rest of the kitchen looks still and normal, a bit messy with the lasagne preparations. It's all there, all in Angie's line of sight, but it looks a bit blurry. 

It blurs further when Peggy slips another finger into Angie's cunt. Oh, she's wide open now. She presses herself down again but there's nowhere further to go.

"So," Peggy says, "Jimmy Abbiati in the public library vs. Peggy Carter in Howard Stark's kitchen? Am I winning?" She says it all cool and smooth but there's sweat on her forehead and her curls are sticking to her cheek.

Angie laughs--gasps--laughs. "No contest," she manages, and grinds herself down onto another twist of Peggy's fingers.

Peggy's looking speculative, shifting her fingers a little wider. The back of Angie's blouse sticks to her skin, sticks everywhere. Her thighs shake, rubbing the soft insides of them against Peggy's knuckles. She's still wearing her heels. Peggy has three fingers inside her and looks like she's considering--yep, four fingers. There are four fingers working Angie open and she's gripping the kitchen counter and fucking herself down on them and oh, God--

Peggy leans forward suddenly, not stopping the tiny rhythmic motions of her fingers, and puts her tongue on Angie's clit. 

"Oh," Angie says, "oh. P-Peg." Her eyes squeeze shut, her mouth stays open around little gasps of air. Her hands lose their grip on the counter and splay wide. Her muscles clench around Peggy's fingers in a wave that rolls down from her stomach and breaks against Peggy's knuckles and rushes back again.

Peggy wipes her mouth off against Angie's thigh; Angie can feel her grinning. She slides her fingers out slowly, slowly, until Angie's muscles are clenching in echo around the absence of them.

The timer, ticking down the minutes on the lasagne, suddenly sounds very loud. The kitchen presses its existence back in around Angie. She opens her eyes and looks around at it, surprised nothing in the room has changed. When she looks down, Peggy still has her forehead pressed against Angie's left thigh. Angie can tell she's breathing hard from the damp patch under her mouth. She seems... a little too content to kneel there and breathe.

"Peg? Do you--"

In answer, Peggy lifts up her hand--the left one, the one _not_ curled in a loose fist against the front of Angie's thigh and covered in Angie's wetness. Her fingertips glisten.

Angie laughs, feeling gleeful, feeling delighted at the thought of Peggy with four fingers in Angie's cunt and her other hand rubbing her own clit as she kneels on the floor. 

The timer dings. 

Angie laughs again. Peggy joins her, leaning back and looking up, her lipstick totally gone and her tongue pink between her teeth. She leans sideways to look in the door of the oven at the lasagne. 

"I'm no cook, but it looks good to me," Peggy says. She rocks back off her knees into a crouch and stands. She winced and shakes out her legs. 

The lasagne smells done, the kitchen ripe with the scent of tomato and cheese and the very subtle undertone of sex. Angie adjusts her panties and tugs her skirt back down. She grabs the oven mitt off the counter and elbows Peggy out of the way to open the oven. 

Angie sets the lasagne on a wire rack to cool and turns the oven off. Peggy shakes herself out a little more and goes to get plates and silverware, setting them up on the island in the middle of the kitchen. They'll have to have a party to use that big dining room. Angie imagines it as she cuts the lasagne into slices: her and Peggy co-hosting a party, inviting all their friends from the Griffith and the L&L and the SSR. It'd be nice. Peggy brings plates to put the lasagne on. 

When Peggy hands her a glass of wine Angie grins, punches her in the arm. "Jimmy Abbiati's got nothing on you, Peg."

Peggy smiles, leans in until her breath gusts against Angie's ear. "Maybe we'll have to give the library a try."


End file.
